


three pm / three am.

by orphan_account



Category: Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:33:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23116282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Inspired by  a yearning text post I spied floating around tumblr — "I want you at three pm as much as I want you at three am..."
Relationships: Andrew Hozier-Byrne/Original Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	three pm / three am.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roosebolton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roosebolton/gifts).



> Here, have some pointless, plot-less fluff. (We could all do with a little right about now, no?)
> 
> Also, be awares — proofing is for people with patience, of which I have none, and for people who won't obsess their writing into nothingness, which I certainly will and do do.

—

For someone so tall and klutzy as he could be, Andrew shouldn’t be quite so good as he is at sneaking up on people.

“Oh! Jeez,” You jumped at the sudden, unexpected feel of his arms snaking tightly around your waist; his face nestling into your hair, his lips planting a kiss to the top of your head as he pressed his warm body against your back. “You scared me.”

You’d been washing the dishes, quietly minding your own business while he was — you’d thought — tinkering away over-over there on a song he’d been hammering at for the better part of his every waking hour, like he had been for almost every day of the past week. 

“Sorry,” He mumbled, though he didn’t really mean it — that which you could tell by the smile on his face and in his voice, and then by the chuckle he let out at the sight of you trying to brush away the suds you’d splashed onto your own face when you’d dropped the mug you’d been washing with a start into the suds-laden sink at the sudden feel of his body enveloping yours.

“What’re you doin’?” You turned a bit in his embrace, your face turning up into the sweet openness of his. He had nothing to say — well, nothing, and everything. His eyebrows, for instance, were saying a lot. His lips too were saying something, with their oh-so familiar upturned corners and lopsided (and vaguely devilish) charm, but there were no words spilling from his lips.

His eyes were glinting, half-lidded, bright green, and vaguely wanton. His hands were squeezing lightly at your hips, toying with the pockets on your jeans. And then he shrugged, smiling still, and dropped a peck on your lips, all but innocent. 

He did it again, and again — another kiss on the corner of your mouth, on the tip of your nose, your temple. You began to giggle, reflecting the warmth of his lazy grin, and then proceeded to melt into a puddle of uncontrollable laughter as he stepped with you to one side of the sink, and then crowded you against the bench, nuzzling his beard gently over your blushing cheeks and flushed neck before soothing the lightly prickled skin with a trail of messy kisses. 

“Andy,” 

“Mmm…?” 

Your words only just escaped between gasps and giggles. Now he was busying himself with getting his hands on whatever skin of yours he could reveal to himself and the chilly air of the room — your shirt haphazard and half undone, while his knee pressed firmly between your legs.

“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon.” You curled your hands into the cotton of his white tee where you’d pushed it up over his abdomen, your rasped words steamy against the skin of his neck where you’d been tracking your lips while he fumbled with the fly of your jeans. 

“It’s two forty-nine, actually.” He smiled again, laughing right into your mouth as he came back up for air, his flushed face greeting yours in the hazy, late-afternoon light (sparse now as it was in the winter-time). “Two _fifty-one_.” He quirked an eyebrow, waited a beat for the laugh of yours he knew was coming, and then descended on your lips again, nibbling lightly on your pouting bottom lip before cradling your face in his hands and drinking you up. 

+++

You couldn’t sleep, but you didn’t mind, not really. 

You had only crawled into bed an hour or so ago, and you knew as well that you didn’t need to be up early in the morning (it was the morning now, but later in the morning, anyway). You could lie here ‘til lunchtime, if you so wanted — here, in your bed with him, the one you shared, wrapped up in his warm embrace. 

He had one of his long legs nestled between your own, one arm slung over your waist and the other tucked under the pillow that rested under your head. You could feel the warm beat of his steady breath against your neck, and feel the gentle shift of his aliveness behind you, there, in your little cocoon of blankets. 

And so, you thought to yourself; it didn’t matter that you couldn’t sleep. Because you could more than happily lie here with him like this forever, and you would if you could. It was your favourite place in the world — quiet in the moonlight, barely clothed and swathed in soft linens with his body pressed beside and along and into all the lines of yours. Perfection. 

“You’re awake.” He grumbled from his spot behind you, his voice sleepy and soft. 

“No, I’m not.” You snuggled back into his warmth, settling into the tightening coil of his arms around you. 

“What’s the matter?” He mumbled again, breath tickling the shell of your ear. 

“Nothing, I’m just not sleepy. I don’t know why…” He readjusted himself and his hold on you, sliding one hand up and under the soft worn cotton of your shirt. You sighed, contented, and he hummed, waking slowly and surely and in more ways than just one. 

“I can help with that.” His hand roamed over your chest and then down, fingertips dancing over your middle until they reached your waistband. You rolled your hips back, and he grunted, tickling a swirl over your abdomen before murmuring against your neck, “Yeah?”, between kisses. 

“Yeah,” You nodded as the word rushed from your lips. He dragged your underwear down your legs and you kicked them away, maybe out from under the covers, as you turned around in his arms. Then, with his breath — still tinged with mint — hot on your face, his eyes trained on your lips, he gathered you back against him, nearer even then before.

His fingertips were lazy against you while your own hunted through the mussed layers of his clothes. You pushed off his tee and tossed it away, and then your hands landed on the gentle heat of him, and he gasped, and then sighed, and then stole your lips for his own. 

You moved like that, unhurried and reverent against each other, until you could bear it no more.

Then came loving desperation — his hand moving faster, yours firmer; you swallowing his sweet, whiny gasps, him smothering your moans with kisses. 

You trembled against him as you came, your face nuzzled over his heart galloping in his chest, your mouth slack jawed and gasping as he drew every last shiver he could from your body. Your body sparked at his touch, every bit of you feeling adored and thrumming with a blissful rush, and then you did the same to him — you took him right to the edge, teasing him lovingly for a moment; wanting to be back in your body enough to enjoy watching him come apart under your touch and before your eyes. 

His forehead dropped to yours, a sound falling from his lips that was as rapturous as it was desperate. And then he fell — over the edge and into you, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth open wide, his lips dragging against your own as he moaned, intoxicated, into his haven that was you. 

He was hard and hot in your hand, his hips jerking urgently as he opened himself up and let himself go, desperately chasing every last bit of what you’d given him, before he sagged wearily against you, spent and sated, and and very nearly back asleep. 

—


End file.
